


and if it's alright with you, i'd really love to spend the night

by KilltheDJ



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Alcohol, Generous Use Of frnk iero and the cellabration Lyrics, M/M, Pining, THE KILLJOYS ARE NOT MCR, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: Maybe falling in love is the worst feeling in the world.Or is it falling asleep next to the man you're in love with?
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 90





	and if it's alright with you, i'd really love to spend the night

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Dirty Laundry and Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends on repeat and this is what happened. It's unedited, so beware - enjoy!

Being pastel is the worst feeling in the Desert.

At least, that’s what Fun Ghoul thinks. 

There’s something so… exhausting about being in love with someone you see on a day to day basis, have to talk to every day and miraculously not let it slip that he’s falling, falling, falling hard for a red-haired Cherry Bomb.

Party Poison was like a ticking time-bomb ready to explode, and Destroya is Ghoul in love with it.

He’s in love with the way Poison’s eyes trace constellations in the sky - he’s in love with the way his eyes can trace constellations between the freckles covering the bridge of Poison’s nose. 

He’s in love with the way Poison smiles at him, when he isn’t trying too hard to be the crash queen the Desert knows. He’s in love with the way Poison talks, enamored with salvation and revolution.

He’s in love with Poison, it’s that simple.

Except it isn’t.

It isn’t, because it’s so tiring to have to force his eyes away when he wants to admire the paint splashing Poison’s face, or how his hair looks like an angry halo around his head when the sun sets just right.

The sun does set to Poison’s schedule, of course. If he wanted, the universe would revolve around Poison and Ghoul wouldn’t resist being apart of it. 

And Ghoul has to pray to the Witch, every night - the Witch he doesn’t believe in - because Poison sleeps right next to him and Destroya, the next time Poison holds his hand he might lose his resolve.

There are so many reasons he should tell Poison. It would be a weight off his heart, it would allow him to focus on surviving the way he’s supposed to. 

Then again, there are so many reasons he shouldn’t tell Poison, even if the sky crashes down around him and a hurtling star steals his angel away. 

It would upset the dynamic of the crew, everything would be different. There’s no guarantee it would disrupt the routine in a good way, either - Poison could very well not look at Ghoul like anything other than a brother, and then everything would be wrong and twisted and it would all be Ghoul’s fault.

Maybe he shouldn’t lie to himself. The real reason he doesn’t want to tell Poison is because he doesn’t want to live with himself having to see Poison every day and know that Poison can see it clearly in his eyes now, how infatuated Ghoul is. 

Times like these, when Ghoul’s sitting on the kitchen counter with no one around - Kobra’s up on the roof star-gazing and Jet’s passed out in his room - he thinks that he’s wrong.

He hopes that he’s wrong, anyway. He hopes that Poison is in love with him as it is vice versa, and they can have a happy ending.

His hopes are all misguided, he knows that. But when confirmation comes, Destroya, Ghoul wished it didn’t.

Because confirmation comes in the form of Party Poison stumbling in through the door of the Diner, slamming it loudly into the booth behind it with no regard for how loud that damn bell above the door was.

Ghoul can’t smell it, not yet, but he bet once Poison got closer he can smell the alcohol on him. 

And when Poison does wander into the kitchen, a lazy grin painting his face as he waves at Ghoul, Ghoul has to shut his eyes and take a deep breath to try to gather his thoughts.

He wants to ignore the purple marks dotting Poison’s collarbone. He wants to ignore the way Poison’s hair is all fucked up, like it’s been tugged on all night. He wants to ignore the blatant intoxication.

Ghoul was the first one in sight, though, so now it’s his job to put Poison to bed. In their bed. The bed they’ve shared for four years now, ever since they moved into the Diner. 

“Hey, Cherry Bomb, how was your night?” Ghoul asks, hopping off the kitchen counter instead of volunteering all the mortification running through his head.

So what if he wanted to be the one to give Poison those marks? So what if he wanted to be the one Poison cared enough about to spend the night with?

“‘S good,” says Poison, too quietly. His eyes are downcast, and he’s not making any move to lean toward Ghoul despite how he’s swaying. Huh. Weird.

Ghoul tentatively wraps an arm around Poison’s shoulders, knowing that Poison is unpredictable at best on what nights he wants to be held and what nights he’ll scream if anyone gets within four feet of him. When he’s drunk, at least. “Yeah? You tired yet?”

“Was hopin’ you’d come to bed with me?” Poison still doesn’t look up, but he does loosely wrap his fingers around the hand over his shoulders, leaning into Ghoul like Ghoul was the only thing holding him up now. 

With a swallow, Ghoul starts to slowly lead Poison back to their room. He doesn’t say anything about staying, even though Poison just requested it. 

He doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know. Ghoul wants to stay with Poison - he’d take sleeping next to Poison every night over sitting on the kitchen counter every day in a heartbeat, no, quicker than a heartbeat if he had the option. 

But Poison is drunk, and Poison’s covered in lovebites and Ghoul doesn’t know if he wants to stay.

There’s something wrong about it him, or maybe that’s just Ghoul’s head playing tricks again. It doesn’t feel right, he isn’t the one Poison cares about.

Yeah, Poison cares about him. He knows that Poison would die for him if he had to, just like Poison would do for Jet, for Kobra. That’s not the kind of care Ghoul wants and, Destroya, it’s so obvious, isn’t it?

Instead of voicing any of that, because that would be the worst mistake he could ever make, Ghoul makes sure Poison doesn’t stumble or trip over anything. Poison is too focused on walking to try speaking. 

Their room is dark, of course it’s dark, - the lightbulb went out quite a while ago, and they had to conserve the electricity they did have - but Ghoul finds the edge of the bed with ease and tiptoes Poison to his side of the bed.

It’s always the left side, for some inexplicable reason. Poison nearly falls face-first into his pillow, but catches himself right before he falls and giggles as he lays himself down.

Poison doesn’t let go of Ghoul’s hand as Ghoul tries to pull the blankets up. Ghoul tugs, but Poison still doesn’t let go.

“Hey, Cherry Bomb, you have to let go, okay?”

“No,” Poison says stubbornly. Because of how Ghoul’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, he can’t see the quiver in Poison’s lip. “No, ‘cos then you’ll leave, an’ I don’t want you to leave.”

Ghoul doesn’t know if he wants to stay. It’d crush his heart more than it’s already been crushed. Ghoul smiles, lightly tugging his hand away from Poison again. “I gotta pull the blankets up, you gotta let me, y’know?” 

“I don’ want you to leave,” Poison repeats again, clinging tighter to Ghoul and tugging right back, trying to get Ghoul to give in and just lay down.

And, of course, like he knew he would, Ghoul gives in and climbs over Poison, to his own side of the bed, and Poison is forced to let go of his hand so Ghoul can get under the blankets himself.

Maybe he’s physically warm, but there’s nothing warm about the feeling spreading down through Ghoul’s body as he pulls the blankets up and Poison turns toward him. 

To combat it, there’s a burning where his heart it. 

Unstoppable force meets unmovable object. Ghoul’s hatred of his feelings meets how much he wants to be held by, or to hold, Poison. 

He’s pastel and there’s no denying it, not as Poison’s red hair gets in his face as Poison shifts impossibly close to Ghoul.

Poison has always been a cuddler. 

That much only increases when he’s intoxicated, and Ghoul’s never going to push him away. He likes the way Poison fits in his arms. Poison is taller than him, yeah, but Poison always curls up when he’s sleeping, and Ghoul’s hands fit around his waist perfectly when Poison tucks his head into the crook of Ghoul’s neck.

“Sweet dreams, Cherry Bomb,” Ghoul hums. He doesn’t know why he has a fixation on calling Poison his favorite nickname on nights like this, but maybe it’s because it feels like confirmation to himself, that tomorrow Poison can be his again, or he can at least pretend until another night like this. 

Poison mumbles something into Ghoul’s neck - it tickles, and Ghoul can’t understand a word his would-be lover is saying. 

“Repeat it?”

And so Poison does, barely lifting his head. His hair falls everywhere - including into Ghoul’s mouth -, but it makes him look all the more perfect in Ghoul’s eyes. “Sing somethin’ to me?” 

Ghoul can’t sing. They both know it, it’s common knowledge, but Poison didn’t ask for him to sing something well, he just asked to sing something.

After saying a weak “yeah” in response, Ghoul debates on what he knows the lyrics too.

He knows most of the lyrics to anything that Cherri likes, from how often he plays his CDs and records at an obnoxiously loud volume.

He also knows most of the lyrics to the things Dr. D likes to play on his radio station, but what he starts to sing is neither of those. 

It’s a song he only found when he was scavenging through the attics of one of the few homes that surrounded the Helium Wars and the wear of Desert time. It was hidden away in a chest, away from the weather and other thieves.

Ghoul thinks that maybe it was made from a Desert-dweller from the poor quality and the age of the headphones and headphone player he found it in. 

_ I got my bags all packed and I'm ready to go _

Shit, maybe this isn’t the right song to sing. His voice is raspy and it cracks too much as his thoughts rush ahead to the rest of the lyrics. 

Poison doesn’t seem to mind how rough his voice sounds and simply nuzzles further into Ghoul’s neck. He does smell like alcohol, Ghoul was right. 

There’s lipstick on Poison’s collar, too. 

_ I'm standing outside of your figurative door _

Ghoul doesn’t want to keep singing; he thinks if he does then he’s going to start crying. This song reminded him too much of Poison, that’s why he was singing it, but Destroya, it was a bad choice.

He can’t back out now, though, because if he does it might startle Poison and Destroya only knows hat once he’s startled, Poison can never fall back asleep. 

_ And I'm ready for the flight or to fall off a cliff _

If Ghoul had it his way, Poison would be his. He wouldn’t have to spend these nights singing Poison to sleep and feeling guilt pour through his veins as he remembers this isn’t his place.

Because it’s not his place, it’s the place of a lover. Ghoul isn’t Poison’s lover. Maybe he is some nights, but tonight, it was someone else. It was clearly someone else, and Ghoul pretends that he wishes Poison had chosen to stay home and maybe graffiti the Diner walls with Kobra or something of that nature. 

_ But if it's alright with you I'd rather not miss out on us _

Ghoul didn’t want to miss out on them, whatever they were, but Poison’s breathing was starting to even out. 

He only sings a few more lines, humming the rest because he doesn’t know if he can handle the truth that spills from behind them. 

It’s stupid how much a song can make Ghoul want to cry. It’s stupid how much Poison makes him want to cry.

He knows when he wakes up Poison is probably going to be gone from his side, sipping bad Zones coffee in one of the booths, pretending late night never happened. The only evidence will be the jacket-covered marks of a lover Poison probably doesn’t remember the name of. 

Ghoul will pretend as well; he’ll pretend that he didn’t hold Poison, that he didn’t sing that song.

He’ll pretend the tears starting to slip down his face were never there.

But for now, for now he’ll admit that he’s crying. He’s crying over Poison, over the way he knows Poison will never care about him the same way. He’s crying over how pastel he is, because being pastel with his crew leader is like a death sentence.

Being pastel is the worst feeling in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> :D what'd ya think?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [turn off the lights (your makeup stains my pillowcase)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798042) by [Pidonyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx)




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